


Painted Over

by coricomile



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Just the Tip, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25137562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: Dean wouldn't put it in.Sam didn't know if it was just Dean being Dean- selfish and self-serving, enjoying himself at Sam's expense- or denying them both for some sort of moral code that bent every which way except for the way Sam wanted it.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 14
Kudos: 123





	Painted Over

Dean wouldn't put it in. 

Sam didn't know if it was just Dean being Dean- selfish and self-serving, enjoying himself at Sam's expense- or denying them both for some sort of moral code that bent every which way except for the way Sam wanted it. Sam tugged at his own hair, grown too long and sensitive at the scalp, a pain reflex that made him shiver despite the heat all around him. It was suffocating, drawing out his breaths into tiny _huff, huff, huffs_. 

"Yeah," Dean said mindlessly, curling his wrist and sliding his fingers in deep and slow. Dean's hands- Jesus, Dean's hands. Sam had stared at them working over engines and guns and made into bloodied fists, knew each scarred knot on his knuckles and the whirl of his fingertips by heart. 

Dean had let him watch, once. Sam remembered her name but Dean didn't. Dean rarely did. Sam had hovered at the door to their temporary bedroom, left open wide like an invitation he couldn't refuse. A present. A taunt. A steamroller over Sam's heart and gut and cock as Dean slid those hands down Marie's small breasts under her shirt and down, down, down over her stomach and into her flipped up skirt. 

The angle had been too perfect for it to be an accident, Marie turned sideways over the bed, one of her legs drawn up and the other across the stiff mattress, her bare toes curling in the carpet. Dean hadn't looked up when Sam came in, but his ears were sharp, his reflexes sharper. He had to have known Sam was standing in the doorway, didn't stop running his mouth against Marie's ear as Sam watched him pull her panties to the side and slide his middle finger into her. Sam hadn't been able to move, afraid to breathe, afraid to jolt a rickety floorboard. 

Breathless and squirming on another too hard mattress hundreds of miles away, Sam yanked at his own hair again, flailing with his free hand for something to hold on to. Dean was too far away, perched at the end of the bed with one leg tucked under him, still in his jeans and sweaty t-shirt, his arm crooked at the elbow and stretched just far enough that he had range of motion. Sam ended up with the fitted sheet clutched in his hand, pulling it up from around the mattress. They'd have to make the bed again when they finished. 

Dean was slow and methodical, rocking his wrist more than thrusting, his thumb right behind Sam's balls, pushing them up. He kept his rhythm steady and, if Sam could hold onto any thoughts for longer than a few fleeting moments, he might have been able to put tempo to name of whatever song Dean was singing in his head to keep beat. 

Sam whined, high in the back of his throat, and fought the urge to clamp his calves around Dean's wrist. Dean didn't tell him what to do here, not usually, just let Sam take almost as much as he wanted, indulgent like he wasn't really outside of a bedroom, but Sam liked the challenge. Liked the way Dean's eyes slowly turned from green to black the longer he gave up to whatever Dean wanted but wouln't say. Liked the way Dean got so worked up without Sam having to do much at all. 

"Dean," Sam hiccuped, his foot slipping on the sheets. "Come on."

He didn't remember the last time he'd felt air conditioning outside of the Impala. He hated being down south in the summer, hated the way the air turned heavy enough he could feel the thickness of humidity every time he breathed in, hated how he turned sweat sticky even fresh out of the shower, the smell of salt always so heavy he felt like he'd taken a rock salt buckshot to the chest. 

Dean always thrived in the heat, in the sun, stripped down to shorts cut off from what had been a pair of their Dad's jeans once upon a time, the frayed edges white and just a little loose around his knees. Sam burned fast, had to smuggle out sunblock every summer and spread it on thick if he didn't want to be miserable and sore for weeks on end, but Dean turned gold brown, the freckles hidden through winter blooming back over his shoulders and face. On him, the sweat looked sexy. Looked purposeful and full of promise, slicked his hair into messier spikes and highlighted him in the right sort of light like something out of a Calvin Klein ad. 

"What d'you want, Sam?" Dean asked, voice low. It stopped cracking three years ago, just in time for Sam's to start. Sam could remember laughing every time Dean would be midsentence and change octaves, but it was less funny when it was him, when Dean exploited it during the stolen moments in bed. He never laughed, but his mouth twisted in a fond way that made Sam's stomach go tight every time. 

"Put it in," Sam said, unable to stop the jerk of his hips down against Dean's hand. His cock laid swollen on his stomach, red and eager and pooling sticky hot precum below his bellybutton. If he wanted to, really wanted to, he could reach down and jerk himself off, end the spiral of too much and not enough and wanton, base need that was building in his spine. Dean wouldn't stop him. "Dean, come on-"

"When you're older," Dean said, like he did every time. He twisted his wrist, the knuckles of his ring and pinky fingers dragging over Sam's ass. Sam's skin felt like electricity, a sparkling energy more than flesh, held together just by the strength of Dean's will. 

"I'm-" Sam sucked in a breath. Dean must have changed tracks in his head, his hand working just that much faster but still steady as a metronome. "I'm sixteen."

"I know," Dean said, the mattress shifting as he finally unfolded himself and got onto his knees, planting his free hand next to Sam's head. He hovered there, his necklace dangling down far enough that it dragged over Sam's chest each time Dean moved his shoulder, the heat rolling off of him enough to make Sam feel like he might just melt straight through the bed and down into the earth. 

"You were-" Sam gave up on the sheet, heard the elastic snap as it pulled free from under the mattress, and clutched his fist in Dean's shirt instead. Dean rewarded him with a kiss to his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. "You were younger."

Dean had let him see that, too, one time. Sam didn't remember her name, had never gotten it, but he'd always remember the way she'd thrown her head back as Dean thrust into her, just as slow and steady, his hands running over her body and his ass flexing and contracting and bare in a way that was different than all the times Sam had seen it before. Sam had hovered in the doorway then, too, half hidden by the jut of wall, his breath held as he'd watched the way his brother moved, strained to hear his grunts and stuttered breaths under the girl's high, breathy moans. 

He wanted to know what she felt like. Wanted Dean to just do it, let them both have it. Wanted to drag Dean into him so far that they couldn't be separated, couldn't be torn apart, couldn't be made anything other than one whole unit, _SamnDean_. He wanted to come so badly that he could feel himself starting to shake, tremors in his thighs he couldn't hold back. 

"I know," Dean said, his lips catching against Sam's as he spoke. His wrist never stopped moving. It was maddening. 

"Just the-" Sam's other hand slapped down on Dean's waist, numb fingers grappling with Dean's belt buckle and fly. "Just the tip." Dean did laugh then, rich and real and Dean through and through. 

" _You're_ just the tipping _me_?" Dean asked, his thumb pressing down harder right at the base of Sam's balls. Through the thick air and the clamp on his chest and the orgasm that was so close, so close- just needed someone's hand on his dick for a minute- Sam could barely breathe. 

" _Yes_." Sam managed to fumble Dean's jeans open, got his hand down to Dean's briefs to feel where he was just as hard, feel the sweat spots and the wet spot at the front bleeding through the cotton. Dean hissed out a breath through his teeth, his dark eyes never leaving Sam's face. "Come on, Dean. Do it. I want you to do it." He didn't say please. He never said please. Not to Dean, anyway. 

"This not good enough for you, Sammy?" Dean asked, twisting his wrist again. Sam's cock jerked up, the head brushing over Dean's t-shirt. Sam swore, latching his hand too tight around Dean's cock, fist trapped by the cling of denim at Dean's hips. He needed more hands, needed to make Dean feel the same dizzying, overwhelming feelings breaking Sam apart molecule by molecule. 

"No," Sam said stubbornly. Dean laughed again, a huff of hot breath against Sam's throat. "Dean. Come on. Just do it."

"Ask nice, Sam," Dean said, finally giving a real thrust of his hand, his fingers dragging out slow and going back in hard. Sam's knee slammed up against Dean's chest, but Dean didn't even flinch. 

"Fuck you," Sam gasped. Dean did it again and again, the rhythm harder to keep up this way, but Sam didn't care. "I want it. Come on, just- Jesus, Dean- come on."

Dean huffed again, sitting up on his heels. The mattress moved as Dean shoved his jeans and briefs down to his knees, his cock hidden by the hang of his shirt. It didn't matter. Sam had memorized the curve and heft of it, knew the exact shape of the circumcision scar and the way it curved just a little to the left when it got really hard. 

"Just the tip," Dean said, fingers pulling out so slow Sam could swear he felt the whorls of his fingertips leaving permanent marks. Dean moved his hands to Sam's hips, helped lift him off the mattress and onto his knees, fingers sinking into Sam's hips hard enough to let Sam know he wasn't alone in his desperation. 

Sam wiped his forehead against one of the pillows, whole body tight as he heard the slick sound of Dean working lube over his cock. He shifted his thighs farther apart as Dean pushed up behind him, cock a hot, hot, hot weight right between his cheeks. This was familiar, Dean rubbing off on him, their bodies back to front and so tight that Dean's necklace drove into Sam's skin and left indents. Sam reached back, nails scraping over Dean's thigh. 

"You said-"

"I'm savoring the moment," Dean said, teeth latching onto the nape of Sam's neck for a quick moment. Sam shivered as Dean's palm dragged down over his back, over the crest of his ass. "Don't move, Sam. I mean it." 

An order, the first one Dean had ever given him between sweaty sheets, the first time he'd ever put that stone solid will into play when it mattered outside of bloodshed. Everything inside of Sam wanted to fight it, wanted to buck- literally, figuratively, metaphorically, any adjective that high school had drilled into him- but he bit down into his own arm, pain a flicker of reason, and held himself as still as he could. 

"Fine, whatever. Just do it." Sam closed his eyes, head hanging down between his shaky forearms. 

"Bitch," Dean said, laughing just a little as he carefully held the head of his cock to Sam's hole and let his weight push it in. 

It wasn't like his fingers at all. Sam swore, clenching his fists to keep still. Pressure, pressure, pressure, the fat, blunt head of Dean's cock almost too wide, but then- Sam groaned as he felt his body give, as Dean got it all the way in just up to the ridge, holding Sam open wide, no relief from the stretch of it at all. Worse than if Dean would have just slid all the way in, let the fat head give way to the barely thinner stretch of his shaft, but Dean didn't move, just held them both there. 

"Jesus, Sam." Dean's forehead dropped between Sam's shoulders, his body just as shaky as Sam's. 

He moved in barely there increments, centimeters instead of inches, stretching Sam open again and again, uncomfortable and strange but good, good, so good- Dean fumbled for Sam's cock, his palm slapping against Sam's stomach first, his other hand clenching against Sam's hip hard enough that it hurt in the bad way, fingers digging in like they'd touch bone. 

"Come on, Sam," Dean groaned, too tight grip around Sam's cock, hand working faster than the tentative roll of his hips. "Sammy, you gotta-"

Sam tried, he did, but his hips had a mind of their own and bucked- up into Dean's grip, back as far as he could against the vice grip of Dean's hand on his hip. Dean wouldn't let himself go in any more, wouldn't fuck him, but it was almost the same and Sam had to bite into himself again, had to get his own violence out as he felt the build inside of him, his stomach going tight, his ass clenching around the tip of Dean's cock, the catch of his breath stuck so deep in his chest he couldn't tear it out. 

"Dean, I'm gonna-" Sam pitched forward onto the bed, Dean sliding out of him, and came into the already filthy sheets, his cock jerking in Dean's fist, whole body gone so tight it felt like he'd snap in half. Dean worked him through it, jerked him off until Sam was squirming against him, throwing one shoulder against the bed so he could reach down and lock his own hand against Dean's wrist to stop him. 

"Gonna let me?" Dean asked mindlessly, pressing the head of his cock against Sam's hole again, not inside but just enough pressure that Sam could remember how it felt. 

His knuckles smacked up against Sam's ass as he jerked himself off, held tight enough against him that if Sam bucked backward, he could have gotten all of Dean in him, one motion to finally give him what they both really wanted, but Sam forced himself motionless, let himself feel Dean come apart without interference. Dean's come hit him in waves, hot and sticky and a little gross, the head of Dean's cock smearing it into Sam's skin as he thrust forward, his thighs hitting the backs of Sam's hard enough to make audible sounds. 

Dean flopped onto the bed next to him, chest heaving and mouth gaped open. Sam didn't let him recover, never did. The only time Dean got cuddly was after an orgasm and Sam knew that he only had a handful of moments to tuck himself into Dean's chest, to savor the absent kisses Dean would press to his hair, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Dean tore them apart, took his time doing it with glee, but Sam taped them together in triage. 

"Next time you'll really do it, right?" Sam's lips brushed over the cotton over Dean's shoulder, sucked in the too hot southern air as he tried to catch his breath. Dean huffed, not a laugh but not disdain, not an answer at all, but pulled Sam tighter into him. It would have to be enough.


End file.
